A Perfect Failure
by as twilight approaches
Summary: Harry has been selected to be Seeker for England's Quidditch World Cup team. It's great, except for one thing: Draco Malfoy is his alternate. Better Summary inside!
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hey, guys! This is my first story here ever, so it's not going to be very complicated. It'll probably contain future HD slash.. and this is my first slash story too! This bit is just kind of an introduction. All chapters after this will definitely be longer. And don't worry, Harry is in the next chapter. So uhm, please review and if you see any problems, tell me. I don't have a beta or anything, so I'd appreciate the heads up. Thanks :

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter- That whole beautiful world belongs to J.K. Rowling. :

Summary: It's been a few years since Voldemort's defeat, and everyone has moved on. Harry is now a professional Quidditch player and in an on-again, off-again relationship with none other than Ginny Weasely. Harry is chosen to be the Seeker for England's World Cup team, but his alternate is none other than Draco Malfoy. As Harry has already learned: Anything can happen.

So, I might raise the rating to M later, but I doubt it. xD Sorry guys, but I'm not quite comfortable writing anything heavy yet. And don't worry, I fully expect this story to develop a plot. There just has to be a lot of H/D fun before that can happen!

* * *

Draco Malfoy took another sip of his tea, luxuriating in the warmth of the soft sunlight that streamed in through the parlor window. Sitting across from him was none other than Blaise Zambini, who was currently looking very pleased with himself. Draco ran a hand over the smooth white fabric of the sofa, tracing the pattern with his finger. 

"What was it you wanted to tell me, Blaise?" He asked idly.

"Really, Draco, I only visited to bask in the excellence of your company," Blaise replied, his lips curling into a smile. The blonde shot him a pointed look, not even bothering to respond. "Well," Blaise conceded, "I suppose I do have some news." He grinned, leaning forward and setting his tea down on the table. "First, I feel obligated to tell you that I have heard from several reliable sources that England's team for the Quidditch World Cup has been chosen."

Draco sucked in his breath, his gaze sharpening. Blaise had better follow this statement with some very, very good news, or he'd find he was wearing his tea rather than drinking it.

"And," Blaise continued, "It appears that a certain ex-Slytherin seeker is one of the lucky few. But wait! I have more news… of course, this next bit doesn't directly concern you-"

"I, Draco Malfoy, Seeker for England," Draco chortled, puffing out his chest. "I can't believe it- well, I can, actually, but it's still a wonderful feeling to be acknowledged." Finally, after years of playing second fiddle to Potter's quidditch prowess, he _finally_ had proof that he was better. Of course, Draco had known this all along. It was getting everyone else to agree that was the problem.

"Now," Blaise said petulantly, "If you will _please shut up-" _

"I wonder… will I still have to go to practice with my regular team?"

"What I've been trying to say-"

"Oh, do be quiet, Blaise, this is important. As I was saying-"

"As _I_ was saying-"

"We'd better have nice uniforms. None of that disgusting blue color they had last time."

"I'm engaged. Soon to be married. I'd like you to be the best man."

"Though, of course, the _right_ shade of blue…" Draco's eyes widened and his vision snapped back to Blaise. "You're getting married? To- To_Pansy?_"

Blaise gave Draco an odd look, and then laughed. "Well honestly, Draco, we've been dating for months. After you broke off your relationship-"

Draco snorted. "Well, honestly, she was a cow."

"She was still expected to marry into a wealthy pure blood family. And I need a wife. And she's good looking enough, you know-"

"For a cow."

"My mother approves. So, best man?"

Draco's face softened into a sincere smile. "Of course, Blaise. I'd be honored."

Draco had to hand it to Blaise. While Pansy was pretty, he knew that she wasn't the easiest person to get along with. Despite what Blaise said, Draco knew that his marriage to Pansy was nothing more than a political move. There would be little love in that marriage, and that was something Draco hadn't had the strength to face. Maybe it was sappy, or old-fashioned, and certainly very un-Malfoy of him, but Draco didn't want to come home each night to a cold bed. He wanted a marriage, not a farce. Of course, he had told his friends that he was simply too young and too good looking to be tied down to one woman just yet. He planned on keeping his true reasons a secret.

As he was reaching over to congratulate Blaise, he heard a tap from the window. He quickly fixed his attention between the flowing white curtains. There it was!

"There it is!" He squealed (though he'd never admit it) and bolted towards the window to let the owl inside.

The brown owl landed on the glass coffee table and lazily stuck out its leg. Draco, fingers trembling, freed the scroll. Carefully, he pried it open, unrolling the message painfully slow. There, there, there- the Quidditch World Cup emblem at the top. Of course, Blaise had told him, but to really see it was a whole other thing entirely.

Eye's fixed on the paper, he lowered himself back onto the sofa and began to read aloud. "To Seeker Malfoy," he began, his voice still oddly shrill, "Congratulations! Haha, congratulations to me, Blaise!" He grinned, before continuing. "You have been selected to represent England in the Quidditch World Cup…" he lapsed into silence, his eyes slipping from word to word with a furious excitement.

Abruptly, he stopped, his face hardening into a scowl. He brought the paper closer to his face- perhaps he had misread? No, there it was again. The sentence that made him want to set the world on fire- to, to… pillage and plunder and take all of England prisoner:

…_You have been chosen to fill the position of Seeker Alternate. You are expected to attend all practices and to be prepared to take over should the Seeker be injured or unable to participate. Congratulations once again, this…_

Seeker alternate. Draco sneered, throwing the letter on the floor. Alternate? This was not how it was supposed to happen. He closed his eyes and took deep, calming breaths. Someone had made a mistake. Someone must have made a mistake.

Tentatively, Blaise picked up the letter and read.

"Draco, don't have a fit. It's a great honor. You're still considered part of the team: you'll go to the practices, the dinners, and witches everywhere will post your picture on their bedroom walls. That is, if they haven't already-"

"Who is it, Blaise?" Draco said in a deadly voice.

"Who?"

"Who am I the_alternate_ for? Whose fault is it that I'm not the seeker?"

"Oh, really, it's not important."

"Either tell me or give me the letter."

"You're… Well, your Harry Potter's alternate. But-"

"Oh, that's brilliant," he said, and his voice was ice.

* * *

So, did you like it? Should I keep writing? Or should I never have started in the first place? xD Tell me! I'd usually write more but I have to take the SAT tomorrow (yikes!) so I needed to get to sleep. Thanks for reading! 


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for the reviews, guys. It makes me happy. :D

And about making this Draco/Hermione… I have to say that that isn't where this story is headed at all. xD I do plan on writing a Draco/Hermione story in the future, however.

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I'm not making any money off of this.

**Warnings:** Future slash. But not graphic.

* * *

"Oh, Harry. Do grow up," Hermione admonished.

She had grown up quite well since their Hogwarts days. She took better care of her hair, which was sleek and brown as ever, and dressed stylishly. More importantly, however, Hermione's person seemed to ooze happiness and fulfillment. Such a quality of joy was definitely out of place in the dingy pub where Harry was currently staring morosely into an empty glass.

"I have grown up, Hermione. I'm quite tall," he muttered, and received one of Hermione's patented Withering Stares.

Honestly, the whole situation was ridiculous. Well, his being in a pub made perfect sense. His being in a pub with Hermione, however, was a little unorthodox. Hermione gave very good advice and always had both feet firmly planted on the ground; right now, Harry wanted someone to whine with and rant with, without having to come up with solutions.

Unfortunately, Ron was away on Auror business in Belgium.

"Harry, dear, I bet he won't even have to go to the practices."

Harry perked up a bit: he hadn't considered this before. "You really think so? I mean, I suppose that makes sense. He's just the alternate." He grimaced, shifting on his stool to face Hermione. "It's just… I've been working so hard to make this team. And now he's going to do his best to make it miserable." Harry was fully aware that he sounded childish. He just didn't care.

Hermione sighed with an air of exaggerated tolerance. "You don't know that. I'm sure he's a much better person now. We're not teenagers, anymore, you know, and we're quite capable of acting like adults. And," she continued before Harry could interrupt, "If he _is_ still an immature prat, then you'll just have to be the better man."

"The better man."

"Yes. Kill him with Kindness, Harry. He'll only end up looking like an idiot. Now can we get out of this stupid pub and have a proper celebration?"

Harry smiled sheepishly and rose from the stool, following Hermione towards the door. _I really ought to listen to her more often, _he thought. She was obviously doing something right: he could feel her quiet peace like a warm fire, a welcome heat in a room clouded with cigarette smoke and broken hopes.

"So, Weasley, When's Ron coming home?" Harry joked once they were outside. They were in the middle of muggle London, and Harry had no idea where Hermione wanted to take him.

"Oh, I don't know. He's always gone, isn't he?" Hermione was trying to sound annoyed, but there was a dreamy happiness in her eyes reminiscent of Luna Lovegood, and it betrayed her. "I suppose Sunday night, though. At least he tries to make it by Sunday so whatever news he has can make the Monday paper." She smiled, adjusting the pale pink scarf around her neck.

Harry had always expected Hermione to join the Ministry, just as most people expected him to be an auror. They had both made surprising career choices. Hermione, who had carried a quiet indignation against the Daily Prophet into her adult life, had started her own newspaper. While its circulation was not quite that of the Prophet- yet- it was sworn to only print the truth. No propaganda, no being paid off by the ministry, nothing about crumple horned anythings (at least until they were proven to exist) and Hermione was blissful.

"And what about you, Potter? Planning to join the family anytime soon?" she asked, poking him in the side.

"I don't know. Gin and I only just got back together-"

"You two are always only just back together."

"Well you know how she feels about things. She wants me to be an Auror like Ron, a house in the country, upwards of 18 children. We love each other, but we've both got such tempers. We're bound to break up every so often."

Hermione gave him a calculating look before replying. "Well, as long as you love each other. As long as you're happy- even if that means I don't get to be a bridesmaid for another ten years." She smiled linking her arm through his. "How about we go to Hogsmeade? For old times sake! I don't even remember the last time we went."

"Sounds like a plan, Hermione," Harry replied. He squeezed her arm lightly. "And… Thank you."

She smiled, her eyes lighting up. "Whatever it is I've done, it wasn't a problem. Since you and Ginny are on again- well, you're practically my brother," she said playfully, and laughed.

Harry was suddenly glad that he'd gone with Hermione to the pub instead of Ron. She always managed to put everything into perspective. If Harry or Ron ever veered off course, Hermione had always been there to steer him in the right direction. And he was glad of her advice. Come practice Monday, he'd show Malfoy just how kind he could be.

Of course, it would be brilliant if he didn't have to.

* * *

Harry returned to his flat at a little past eleven. He'd had a really good time with Hermione, but she had a lot of work to do over the weekend and they both needed sleep.

His flat seemed chill and isolated compared to the warmth of Hogsmeade and the sense of companionship he'd felt with Hermione. The walls were inescapably white, a dull and glaring color that he'd meant time and again to paint over. A few pictures decorated them, mostly of his friends and a few unintentionally humorous ones from Dobby, but not enough to make the flat feel quite like home.

Still, it was decent. It had a nicely sized bedroom and a roomy kitchen, a dining room, a sitting room, and a small office that Harry hadn't bothered finding a use for. And it was big enough for two- as Ginny kept reminding him. The flat certainly had great potential, but Harry had never been troubled to explore it. Something about this place seemed so temporary, so insubstantial. Harry felt in his gut that this was not home. This was what would cover his head until he found where home was.

He kicked off his shoes in the general vicinity of the doorway, and threw his jacket towards the sofa. Harry had developed somewhat sloppy habits. The only thing that kept his flat from a constant state of disorder was Harry's relatively small number of possessions. He'd never owned much growing up, and still had yet to develop a desire for material objects.

Ginny, who had grown up with nearly nothing but wanting everything, didn't quite understand. But Harry wouldn't mind a cluttered home, especially for her sake.

Harry walked over to the kitchen table where the Daily Prophet lay, unread, and sat down. He already knew what he'd see, but wanted to read it anyway.

**Quidditch World Cup Team Announced**  
_**Harry Potter is chosen to play seeker.**_

_The English team for the Quidditch World Cup was finally revealed yesterday after a long wait. Of course, there are little surprises this year: Harry Potter will play as Seeker, as everyone expected. _

_Potter's fame is predicted to draw one of the largest audiences in World Cup history, should England make the final match. This has already been taken into consideration by the Wizarding Games Department, who are working to find a highly secluded area for the matches. "There might be some more travel involved in this one," warned a Ministry official. _

_There have been rumours that the Final might even take place in Bulgaria, but these rumours have not been confirmed._

_Even more interesting, however, is the choice for Seeker Alternate. This position has been filled by none other than Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter's old school rival. Ginny Weasley, who is romantically involved with Potter, had this to say:_

"_Malfoy is a right [word omitted git, and that's really all there is to it. He was really foul to Harry in Hogwarts… I honestly don't know how this will play out."_

_And how this unorthodox choice for Alternate will affect the team is anyone's guess. One thing seems very clear: Potter and Malfoy are going to have to set aside their differences. Not only will they both be attending all practices, but it is common practice for the Seekers to engage in their own specialized training separate from normal team practice. Whatever happens, it will certainly make for a very interesting team dynamic._

_The team is as follows:_

_**Keeper:**__ Oliver Wood  
**Chaser: **__Liliana Porter  
**Chaser: **__Thomas Nielson  
**Chaser: **__Edric Trumeau  
**Beater: **__Gardenia Jones  
**Beater: **__Zachary Fray  
**Seeker: **__Harry Potter_

_**Keeper alt.:**__Aurelia Smith  
**Seeker alt.:**__Draco Malfoy_

Harry set down the newspaper, feeling suddenly tired. It was just so typical. Just when he thought he'd never have to interact with Malfoy again…

But Harry was determined not to let it ruin his World Cup experience. This is what he'd been working towards his whole Quidditch career, and he wasn't about to let a petty school rivalry get in his way. It's not like he'd done anything to Malfoy recently; they hadn't even seen each other in years. Harry was confident that they would both be able to act civilized.

* * *

Draco scowled at the Prophet article, willing it to burst into flames. "Put aside our differences," he hissed somewhat demonically. "That idiot wouldn't know how to act civilized if his life depended on it. Am I right?"

His owl merely looked at him, hooted softly, and turned away.

Draco rolled his eyes, sinking further into his chair with a pout. He threw the article into the blazing fireplace. It was a childish expression of his anger, but it was soothing nonetheless to watch the offensive paper burn.

Abruptly, he put out the fire and stood up. "I'm being stupid about this," he conceded. Blaise had already told him as much, but Blaise had always said such things and Draco had always chosen to ignore him. In this matter however, Blaise was right. There had to be some way to turn the situation to his advantage.

Draco paced the small study, his thoughts whirring through scheme after scheme. Draco may have been rude to Potter in Hogwarts, but Potter had been rude right back. It was entirely unfair that Potter should have the entire world thinking he was a saint.

"So," he told his owl (Blaise had gone home after a few hours, claiming that if Draco said one more thing about Quidditch or Potter he'd throw himself out the window), "What I have to do is make myself look like the good guy. I'll come out on top, for once." He grinned, lowering himself back into his chair with a gusty sigh. "I've been going about this all wrong. What I have to do is be _nice_ to Potter. He's bound to take the offensive- he always has done. He'll look immature and ridiculous when I come back with nothing but niceties."

Draco grinned wickedly. Sure, it was one of the least brilliant solutions he'd ever come up with, but it was nearing 3 in the morning and Draco couldn't sleep unless he felt he'd resolved the issue.

At Quidditch practice he would unleash the full power of his Malfoy etiquette on the unsuspecting Potter.

* * *

So, there it is. Only five pages, but once again I really like to sleep. xD And a pretty quick update if I do say so myself. I expect the next chapter to actually involve Quidditch practice, so don't worry. **Please review**! It makes writing so much more fun to know that someone out there is appreciating it.

And tell me if I have the characterizations very off for any of the characters. I'm trying to keep them as in character as possible. As I recall, Draco always seemed childish, and I think he'd stay that way even as an adult. But he's better now at being smooth and eloquent of course, you just don't get to see it. Yet.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Sunday night. Harry had spent most of his weekend trying to ignore the fact that Monday was imminent. Across from him lounged his primary means of distraction for tonight: Ginny.

Right now, she was looking up at him through her eyelashes, a slender finger twirling through her hair and a sly smile on her face.

Right now, Harry was thinking how good she looked there on his couch, in his home, in his life. She was talking about something- Quidditch maybe, or work, or dinner- Harry nodded and grunted in agreement in all the appropriate places, but his mind was racing in its own direction. He and Ginny had just gotten back to together a week ago now, and he couldn't remember for the life of him why they'd ever broken up in the first place.

"…it's just so austere, Harry, you understand? I think that…"

Ginny's voice trailed off. She had finally noticed the reason for his silence and attention. Harry licked his lips, his eyebrows arching. Ginny giggled. "What?"

Harry leaned across the coffee table, and when he answered, his voice was rough.

"You're too far away.."

Ginny grinned wickedly, and leaned towards him before hovering just out of reach.

"I'm not moving," she said.

The next thing he knew, Harry was across the coffee table and next to Ginny on the couch. One of his hands was running through her hair, cradling her head, pulling her closer. He could feel her then, one of her hands creeping up his neck, one of her hands smoothing its way down his chest, her lips just grazing his.

"Harry," she breathed, and he could taste her in his mouth. He tried to pull her closer, but her hand on his chest wouldn't let him. "Harry, don't you wish we could do this always? If I lived here then-" Her lips moved against him when she spoke.

"Ginny, please, I don't want to get into this now…" He craned his neck towards her.

"Then when?" Ginny demanded, sliding away from him. His chest was cold where her hand had been. "You never want to talk about it. How long have we been dating, Harry!?"

"Well, we aren't the most consistent couple, Gin-"

"Oh, I hope you don't mean to imply that that has ANYTHING to do with me-"

"Well it takes two and I don't think it's such a good idea to make such a huge commit-"

"That's just it! That's the problem! You won't commit to anything!"

Ginny was standing now, red-faced and breathing hard. "You never commit. We've been dating for years, Harry. God damnit, I _deserve_ some sort of commitment. You know why we keep breaking up? Because there's nowhere left for this relationship to go- we're at the point where we should be… I mean, Ron and Hermione are MARRIED, and you just won't… It's like a dead end with you!" She was even more flushed now, her eyes starting to well up with tears.

"It's just," she said, her voice thin, "What's holding you back? Don't you want to be with me?"

Harry just stared, gaping. This wasn't what he had planned for tonight. He had always meant to give Ginny what she wanted, just… later.

Ginny's face crumpled and she let out a little cry, balling her hands into fists. "Fine!" she shouted, "Fine! I get it! I'll just go!"

"Ginny, wait- It's not that I don't want to be with you…"

Ginny paused, closing her eyes, trying to calm down. When she spoke next, her voice was soft and her face had smoothed out.

"Then what is it, Harry?" She asked.

Harry gave no answer, only watched as Ginny's face fell again but in a worse way then before: before she had looked upset, now she looked defeated.

He sat the rest of the evening alone in his living room, not sure exactly when she had left or exactly why he had made her.

* * *

**AN**: nn' I'm sorry. For the like, ten of you who read this, I'm really sorry. I kind of... didn't want to write for a really long time. But now I do. So... This is very extremely short, I am aware, but it needed to be done, and I didn't want it in the same chapter with everything else AND I have to go soon so here it is in all it's short glory. :''' Yeah, so, I'm ungiving up on this story now. And I apologize. nn'

Also I didn't edit this. :3

* * *


	4. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

So I had a chapter four up. I wrote it yesterday.

It was terrible and I didn't like where it was going nor how I treated any of the characters at all. I liked nothing about it.

So I'm rewriting the chapter (I'm tempted to rewrite the whole damn story but I think I'll just stick to this chapter for now).

The new one should be up tonight or tomorrow. Sorry about this.

If you guys haven't guessed, I find this story very difficult to write and I don't like it very much. I vastly prefer my other story The Masking Dawn (but no one reads that one... it figures.)

thanks and I apologize once again.

Ok so I'm actually going to talk more. It's been a really long time since I started this story and now the plot (where it was going with this chapter at least) is WAY too fluffy and... shallow... and totally ignores reality and the actual events. So I'm trying to fix it! But it still disregards the epilogue. =P

so yeah sorry with all you people who got the alert in your email- check back and it should be up TONIGHT OR TOMORROW

that is a PROMISE

FOR REAL

TONIGHT OR TOMORROW I SWEAR.

Ok i'm done now. :]


	5. First Sight

**AN:** HA! I told you. :D So I intended this chapter to include Harry's perspective but I promised I'd have it up by tonight so it's uh, just Draco thinking you get to hear. I think it's kind of cool that way, though. Cause see, I know what Harry is thinking but you don't. You'll have to wait for next chapter! Hahaha. I'm in a good mood.

**WARNING:** If you read the first chapter for I put up, go back and read it again. It's no longer a chapter, it's an author's note. THIS is chapter four. But I'm going to refer to it as chapter five cause otherwise I'll get confused. So this is actually chapter five, and chapter four was an author's note. ... Cause that's less confusing and all. ;]

ALSO I DON'T OWN THIS STUFF OK? JK ROWLING DOES (lucky ho)

* * *

Draco had woken up before sunrise. Practice started at eight in the morning and it was imperative that he be totally prepared and presentable. Not only would he be facing certain… persons of past significance, as it were, but he would be representing the Malfoy family to all of England. Though the Malfoys had come a long way since the war, they still received mixed public opinion at best.

His family had come a long way indeed. He shivered inwardly while practicing a look of complete and total detachment. It was nothing like it had been in the first few years after the war. He had not been able to go out in public without people jeering or spitting or throwing hexes. His father had been forced to put up wards to keep owls away- they had been receiving too many howlers and death threats and cursed envelopes for their own safety.

Only time and many very charitable donations had helped put the public at ease. His father was no longer involved in politics, and instead spent most of his time in France with Narcissa. Draco remained in England year around running the Manor and playing quidditch. It had always been a dream of his to be a professional Seeker, but for a time it seemed he would have to give it up and study potions instead. It was a frustrating few years in which team owners and coaches were so distracted by the pale hair and smooth, pointed features that they did not see the talent.

Not that there was anything wrong with his pale hair and smooth, pointed features.

Draco smiled into the mirror, getting his hair to fall _just so_ about his eyes.

It had been nothing more than sheer luck that finally got him on a team, as much as Draco was loathe to admit it. An old friend of Lucius had purchased a small time team with more losses than fans and had been more than willing to take Draco on.

It was not long before people remembered him for his skill and not merely his past.

And now he was going to play the World Cup.

A part of him still couldn't believe it- it was an incredible honor for someone with his shambles of a reputation. He was sure that he wouldn't be the most popular player on the team (at least not at first), and that didn't bother him. He was used to being counted guilty by association.

However, if he was going to be honest with himself, he _was_ nervous about seeing Potter again and for more than just the fact that they hadn't gotten along in school. Potter had _seen_ Draco at his worst- he had seen Draco amongst Death Eaters. He had heard Hermione tortured in Draco's own home.

And Potter didn't even know the worst. He didn't even know how Draco had stood, trembling, wand drawn and pointed at Albus Dumbledore, and intended to cast the killing curse.

How Dumbledore had offered Draco a _choice_, a way out of the madness he had fallen into, and how Draco hadn't been strong enough to take it.

The Malfoy heir suddenly could not meet his eyes in the mirror. When he finally brought himself to look, his face was drawn and his expression haunted.

He covered it beneath a look of ice and shamelessness that he truly didn't feel.

He tried not to think about the past, most days. He tried not to dwell on his mistakes; he tried to forget the horrible things that he had done to people. He tried to forget how relieved he felt when he was _behind _the Crucio and not the target. Thinking about it just left with a sour taste in his mouth and a deep seated self-disgust.

And he was afraid that, when he finally saw Harry Potter for the first time in years, the past would be all he could think about.

Draco smoothed out his quidditch robes (they _were_ the same terrible blue from last year) and prepared to apparate the quidditch pitch. He would deal with Potter when the moment came. He would deal with his stinging pride (it was an honor to be on the team, but as an _alternate_?), and he would deal with his past. Just so long as he was _polite_ he doubted Potter could say anything so terrible.

Not that it mattered what Potter thought, Draco amended. Not that he cared. Draco chewed on his lip thoughtfully. He shouldn't care. Why would he care? He shook his head and apparated to the field an hour and a half early.

He was the only one there, as he had hoped.

He tossed his bag to the ground after charming it to be inconspicuous and mounted his broom. He would watch the players arrive from the safety of the sky. It would give him a chance to observe his teammates, identify potential allies, and choose the opportune moment to 'arrive.'

It was a full hour before a young brunette sauntered onto the pitch. He had delicate, almost angelic features and carried a beater's bat. It must be Zachary Fray, then, the Beater.

Zachary Fray came from a pureblood mother who had, much to the dismay of her family, married a half-blood man with little wealth or intelligence. It was a waste of a bloodline. Had she married a pureblood their offspring would have been suitable for marriage into the Malfoy line.

Fray himself didn't seem particularly interesting. He had a pretty face, but it was a common sort of pretty that was too feminine to be properly attractive. He sat down on the pitch and didn't move once until the rest of the players began trickling in.

Second was the other beater, Gardenia Jones. She was a stocky, muscular woman with a loud rasping voice and a crass air. She was a nobody as far as bloodline went and Draco didn't feel like wasting time watching her.

As a matter of fact, only a few of the players seemed worth forming friendships with. Namely Edric Trumeau, who came from a French pureblood family with incredible political influence, and Liliana Porter, whose family was of smaller consequence but who was reputed to be both charming and cuttingly intelligent.

And, of course, Harry Potter, whose reputation and influence alone could improve circumstances for the Malfoys greatly should he choose to associate with them. Draco frowned, blowing on his fingers, which were starting to go numb. Unfortunately, Harry Potter was not a possibility.

It was now a few minutes before practice should have started and it seemed that the entire team had congregated below. Draco landed his broom at the edge of the field with no one noticing. He had mastered the art of deflecting attention in the first few months after the war. It had been necessary then, and it was still useful now.

The rest of the team was already caught up in a lively conversation in which Potter seemed to play a key role. Though he should have introduced himself then, Draco couldn't bring himself to attract Potter's attention. It was embarrassing, this hesitation, and not something he would ever admit to. He pretended instead to be perfectly nonchalant and _above_ such petty things as friendly chatter. In truth, he hadn't even summoned up the courage to look at Potter. It was ridiculous and childish and he couldn't bring himself to act any other way.

All too soon, however, he lost the chance to make the first move in introducing himself. A woman with pale, calculating green eyes was focused on Draco quite intently. The moment she realized that Draco was watching her as well, the calculating expression melted away in favor of an open and friendly look that didn't fool Draco for a heartbeat.

She was beautiful, and if the way she carried herself was any indication, she was fully aware of her beauty. She kept her chin tilted upwards, throwing her features into the sunlight rather than masking them in shadow. She had smooth, creamy skin and rose pink lips that were slightly parted in her smile. Her hair seemed to flow from her head rather than merely hanging as hair ought to do, and shimmered like spun gold. Undoubtedly she had charmed it that morning; much the way Draco would charm his eyes some days to make them appear more silver and less steely gray. It was a mark of self-awareness rather than self-absorption, and a common practice amongst pure blood families. The body could be used as much as a weapon as anything else. People were much more likely to trust a beautiful face. Or, even if they didn't trust, people were more likely to succumb.

He nodded his head gracefully, his expression unchanged. She nodded back immediately before allowing herself an open smile.

Based solely off her immaculate appearance and attention to courtesy, Draco knew she must be Liliana Porter. He was a bit surprised by her looks, however. He'd heard that she was intelligent and witty, but not that she was beautiful. Usually that meant the girl was less than blessed in appearances and destined to marry a lower ranking family. Liliana, however, was up to Malfoy standards.

Draco considered this for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind like one might taste a foreign food, unsure whether or not he liked it. It would be a suitable match for him. She was of good lineage and would bear attractive, _intelligent_ children. He would not have to force himself to take her to bed- she was more than pretty enough to serve. Her family was just low enough that they would see marrying into the Malfoy line as a step up, rather than be worried about sullying their reputation. Perhaps they would even get along, as Draco's parents had learned to do.

And if not, the house would be big enough so that they might never have to see each other outside of the public eye.

She was looking at him again with that calculating expression, not minding if he saw. She wanted him to know what she was thinking. Draco knew.

If he wanted, he could have initiated a courtship right then. It would not take much- a few delicate meetings in a group setting where they would have conversations filled with innuendo and double entendre. If all went well, if Liliana did not suddenly become diseased or disfigured and the Malfoy's did not suddenly become destitute and vulgar, they would proceed to the next level. More private meetings where they would feign interest in each other and maybe even pretend at love.

The Malfoys would have the Porters to dinner. The Porters would bring the Malfoys a luxurious gift that was domestic in nature- usually a wine chalice or a flower vase or expensive silverware- and the Malfoys would accept the gift and put it on prominent display.

The Porters would then have the Malfoys to dinner. The Malfoys would bring the Porters a personal gift for Liliana- a necklace or a ring- and Liliana would wear the gift the next time she was in public.

Neither gift could be refused, as that would end the courtship.

If all went well and Draco and Liliana didn't waste time getting to know each other, they could be married within the year. Within two years Draco might have a son.

It seemed very simple and wholly undesirable. Draco allowed his expression to close down and become cold, angling his head the tiniest bit away from Miss Porter. Her smile faltered briefly before stubbornly reattaching itself to her face. He had rejected her initial offer but that didn't mean she would give up for good.

"Draco Malfoy, is it?" She asked, rolling her shoulders back to put her body at its best advantage. "I'm Liliana Porter." She smirked, lowering her voice, "It certainly is a _pleasure._"

"The pleasure is all mine, Miss Porter," he drawled.

The rest of the team had gone quiet at the sound of his voice. What, did they expect he not talk? The Malfoy name was not in a complete shambles- he was perfectly entitled to have public conversations. He was about to say something bitingly sarcastic when he realized that no one was looking at him. They were looking at one Harry Potter who, though he had not turned around, was immediately recognizable by the messy nest of black that he called hair.

Draco felt his insides go cold, though he showed no signs of it to the others. _No matter what he says, it doesn't matter. He doesn't know me at all. He hasn't even seen me since I was a child. _

No, Potter's opinion should mean nothing to Draco.

Yet, judging by the ice that had taken up residence inside Draco's stomach, it seemed that it did.

And, though he might try to deny it, it always had.

The real mystery was _why._

Potter, besides being the Savior of the Wizarding World, was a nobody. A halfblood, a ragged boy with funny glasses and a funny scar. He was a trouble maker, a rule-breaker, yet unforgiving of loose morals in others. He was irrational and impulsively heroic to the point of suicidal. He thought with- well, God knows what he thought with, but it certainly wasn't his head.

He had not been the type of boy Draco should have been concerned with. He was not the type of man that Draco should be wary of. He was no dangerous and cunning wizard, he was probably incapable of laying delicate traps or playing political games, he had probably never been able to carry out a successful deception in his life.

Potter had never feigned interest in anyone. You knew exactly how he thought of you. He had no control over his expressions and so was incapable of hiding his emotions. In Hogwarts, Potter had never once been able to look at Draco without some sort of disgust or anger written so clearly on his face it could have been stamped on his forehead. He was useless as far as pureblood tactics went.

So _why did Draco care? _

Potter shifted slightly, and started to turn around. Draco went completely motionless, his face carefully guarded. He had prepared himself for hexes, shouting, and violence. He had prepared himself for threats and insults and mocking.

He was totally unprepared, however, when the Chosen One looked at him, merely glancing over his shoulder, as if he were an inch tall. The lack of emotion, the lack of recognition, was shockingly out of place in those brilliant green eyes.

Potter turned away again as if Draco didn't exist and resumed his conversation.

Draco tried to be relieved. He had seen Potter and nothing had happened. He should be happy.

And yet it was so irrevocably worse than everything he had been prepared for combined. It filled him with a sudden weighty void and a dizziness so intense he feared he might vomit. To think he had spent all of this time worrying and planning and nervous- and Potter couldn't have cared less.

_Why was that?_

Draco swallowed the bile that had gathered in his throat before muttering a quick excuse to no one in particular and heading off to the loo, away from the cold and careless penetration of Potter's gaze.

* * *

**AN:** So yeah. This wasn't supposed to be the ending but I ran out of time cause I said I'd have it up by tonight. n_n Anyways, you may have noticed that the mood and Draco have changed a bit from chapter one.

That's not cause he was a total idiot in chapter one or anything, but he kind of was. So just cut me some slack and accept the fact that I have changed as a writer and am less stupid now. :P

And also please **review**! When I get a review it literally makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

ALSO please stop by my other story, **The Masking Dawn**. Its got an actual plot (haha) and its feeling neglected. :[ Plus I'll probably update that one more.

OK THANKS AND SORRY FOR THE REALLY LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE. 3

I also apologize for my grammar. I have no excuse. I'm an AP English student for goodness sake and it really should be much better than it is.


	6. Practice

**AN: **Haha here it is. Sorry it took so long. I sprained my neck and then found it kind of hard to write as Harry after writing Draco. : I had this chapter mapped out since I wrote the last one, but it's taking a little while so I'm splitting it into two.

**Warning: **Spoilers. In general.

I don't own these characters, not making any money off this.

* * *

Harry was an idiot. He was a completely stupid and unsalvageable idiot. He had been _preparing_ for this for days! He'd know in advance what he was going to confront, and he'd mapped out in his mind how he'd react. He had every intention of following Hermione's advice and being nice. He knew exactly what he'd say, how he'd offer his hand for a handshake. It seemed impossible to mess up, even for him. Up until he'd actually heard Malfoy speak- then the whole bloody plan had flown out the bloody window.

It was… Well, it was _nothing_ like what he'd expected. He hadn't counted on all of the _memories._ Malfoy's voice hadn't changed at all. Hearing it had the same effect as someone shoving Harry's head down a pensieve. Images, unbidden, raced through his mind like wild horses:

Red blood pooling on the bathroom floor as Malfoy, horrified, clutching his stomach. The gashes across his gut gaping at Harry like horrified mouths, like eyes. What had he done? It was an accident, it was an accident!

Ron choking, his face rapidly going red and then white. His body rock hard and convulsing. Harry stiff with fear- was his first and best friend going to die? How could he live without him? Choking back tears and terror as his fist closed around the rough and miraculous bezoar. Praying it would work.

Unable to move, unable to scream or cry- only able to watch. To see Dumbledore standing by the window of the astronomy tower, old and injured and alone. Malfoy in front of him, thin and pale and trying to be lethal, but more than anything else, he is just afraid.

The body falling.

Captive, seeing the recognition in Malfoy's eyes and knowing that was it- it was over. There was no getting away, not now. And then suddenly- Malfoy saves them. Malfoy lies.

Fiendfyre exploding around him and Malfoy clinging to his waist for dear life as the heat builds.

Narcissa's nails digging into his arm as her eyes bore into him with the weight of her fear for her son.

Harry bit his tongue till he tasted blood, dragging his mind back to the present. Everyone was looking at him, he realized. They were looking at him with confusion and a small trace of worry. He bit down on his tongue again, using the tiny stab of pain to help erase his thoughts and compose his face.

Malfoy was still standing behind him, and he'd have to acknowledge that fact if he wanted the rest of the team to go back to minding their own business. He turned around, catching Malfoy's gaze directly.

It was all Harry could do to turn around again before he lost control of his emotions. He could feel them buzzing in the back of his throat and tugging at the corners of his lips. He could feel them there but he could not name what exactly they were. Anger? Fear? Shame?

He decided to avoid the question for the time being. He was there to play quidditch, not dwell on the past or think about how, despite the icy closed expression on his face, Malfoy's eyes had looked…

_Open._

It was a strange expression, one that he'd never seen on the blond before, and it left a funny taste in his mouth. God, but he'd _really_ mucked it up now. He hadn't been nice, he hadn't even been rude- he'd completely ignored the man. And judging from past experience, Malfoy didn't take being ignored too lightly.

"Mate, are you alright?" said Oliver Wood as he peered down at Potter (he was quite tall now), "You're looking a bit peaky."

Harry shrugged, forcing out a lopsided grin. "I'm alright, just a bit nervous about practice I suppose. Er, excuse me… Loo…" he added hastily, before trodding away from the others.

Bloody hell. He _needed_ to get a hold of himself. He couldn't very well go freaking out every time he saw Malfoy or something reminded him of the war. He'd had enough of people saying he was crazy, thank you very much, and acting like a paranoid schizophrenic at practice wasn't going to help him, exactly.

"Get a hold of yourself, Potter," he muttered as he stepped into the loo.

He heard a snort as someone stifled laughter. "Get a hold of yourself? Is that some sort of innuendo? I realize you never had anyone to explain these things to you, Potter, but some activities are best left at home."

Oh, so Malfoy was there.

_Sigh._

Harry turned towards him, avoiding his eyes at first and instead taking in the platinum blond hair, the aristocratically pointed nose, and the ever-present sneer.

Well, it was now or never.

"Thanks for the advice, Malfoy. You're right; no one had told me that," He said in what he thought was an agreeable matter, this time looking to catch Malfoy's eyes. Malfoy, however, was determinedly looking at the far left sink faucet. He seemed a bit taken aback by Harry's response.

The blond nodded stiffly, tossing his hair out of his eyes like a proud horse tossing its mane. A proud, _cornered_ horse looking for the emergency escape.

Harry felt the beginnings of his fiery temper stirring. He was trying here! At least Malfoy could attempt to make _some _sort of effort! But no, he just stood there, not making eye contact, not attempting further conversation, just _stood_ there like he was _better_, with his stupid _perfect_ hair that laid down flat on his stupid bloody _perfect_ head, because everything about him had to be stupid and perfect and the _best_. _That's what this is all about! He just can't handle the fact that I'm better at quidditch. _Harry rolled his shoulders, feeling the muscles in his neck tighten. Some people were so _ridiculous._

_Just look at Malfoy. He's young, annoyingly rich, he still has a family, he's not- well, he's arguably good looking, I suppose. He must be at least slightly intelligent- Why isn't that enough?_

"Well, Malfoy, you must be just as excited as I am to be part of the Quidditch Cup team?" Harry asked, deciding to give it one last shot. At least he could tell Hermione he'd tried.

Malfoy's lips curled up into a sarcastic smile, and he switched his gaze from the faucet to a point slightly above Harry's head. "Oh, I'm ecstatic. I've always dreamt of playing alternate. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm quite finished here and am going to go practice. Unless you need someone to make sure you don't drown in the toilet?"

Without waiting for an answer, Malfoy pushed past Harry and headed out the door at a slight jog back towards the quidditch pitch.

"Well," Harry muttered at Malfoy's receding back, "It was great to see you again."

_Not._

Harry glanced into the mirror. He really _was_ looking a bit peaky, he noticed with distaste. A little pale and a bit sweaty, though practice hadn't even begun. He flipped the faucet on and splashed his face with cold water. He ran one damp hand nervously through his hair, making it even messier than it had been before. Malfoy _had_ to be charming his own blond locks- there was no way anyone had hair that well behaved.

Harry shook his head, licking his lips. He just had to think about something else. He'd tried to be nice and it hadn't worked- but he couldn't let Malfoy ruin this experience for him. It had been a long time since Hogwarts and the war. Plus, Harry thought as he exited the bathroom and walked back towards his teammates, as much as he was loathe to admit it Malfoy wasn't fully to blame for his actions during the war. He hadn't _wanted_ to torture people. He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore.

Snape had done that.

And Harry had managed to forgive Snape. Was Malfoy so much worse that he didn't deserve the same forgiveness?

_No,_ Harry thought, _I can forgive him for what he's done. _He frowned, tugging his bangs over his scar. _That doesn't mean I have to like him._

Harry got back to the Quidditch pitch in the nick of time- their coach had finally made an appearance.

He was a stout man in his mid-forties, probably, with a pinkish face and a mop of honey colored hair. He looked over the team with beady blue eyes and a small smile formed on his face.

"Well, gents, congratulations," He began, but was interrupted by a loud cough from one Gardenia Jones.

He chuckled, and carried on in his loud American accent:

"And ladies. You should all be proud of yourselves. You've made it to the top of the heap- you are the bonafide cream of the crop, here. You- _you_!- will be representing all of England in the Quidditch World Cup. You—you!—are going to take this all the way to the championship and come home with the trophy. Believe you me, this is a winning team. Or it will be, once I'm done with you.

I'm Leonard Addison. Please, if you're going to be using my first name, use Leo. Leonard might be my name but I certainly didn't pick it. I'm from Connecticut originally, but I've been living here for the last five years. And that's all you need to know about me.

What's really important is that you understand just how much hard work this is going to take. If you don't go home tired and wake up sore every day then I'm not doing my job. We can win this thing, but we'll pay for it in sweat, blood, and probably a few tears. Today's practice will be light, just some flying drills so we can get acquainted with each other. Tomorrow will be position specific practice- I'll be rotating around to work with you in your groups. Wednesday will be fitness.

This will become routine for you- Mondays and Fridays will be full team practice or scrimmages. Tuesdays and Thursdays will be position specific training. Wednesdays—soon to be your favorite day—will always be fitness. Just because Quidditch is a flying game doesn't mean I won't be making you run," he finished with a grin.

Harry's attention started to slip as Addison continued, describing the drills they'd be doing that day. He wasn't nervous about Wednesdays since he was already fit from playing professionally. Everyone on the team seemed to be in good shape. He looked down the line of players. All of them were trim. Gardenia Jones was a bit thick, but you could tell it was all solid muscle. Harry wouldn't want to be tackled by her. Whoever was next to her (Gardenia's head was in the way) was slim but toned, and whoever was next to him was pure muscle. _His body could rival mine,_ Harry thought, poking himself in the stomach. _Damn_.

Gardenia shifted her weight, revealing Zachary Fray and none other than Draco Malfoy, who had noticed Harry looking.

Harry quickly looked back at Addison, his ears burning.

"Well," Addison was saying now, folding his arms, "_GET TO IT_."

Harry quickly grabbed his broom, a top of the line Fleetfoot Six, and hopped on. God, he should have paid attention. He had no idea what the drill was.

"Harry!" Oliver Wood said, nudging his broom towards him, "Partners?"

"Er, sure, Oliver. Could you- ah… what are we doing?"

Oliver rolled his eyes, urging his broom toward the far goals. "Passing and flying drill. Spiral pattern. I hope you pay better attention during the games," he said with a laugh.

Harry nodded and followed. It was a simple drill. The two partners had to fly forward orbiting each other in circles, like a moving ferris wheel. The one at the top of the circle would drop the quaffle and the one on the bottom had to catch it, and then drop it once they were at the top. Besides being a little dizzying, there was nothing too complicated about it.

Once he and Wood had successfully gone from one goal line to the other, they had some time to kill before it was their turn again. Harry used this time to observe the other players. He'd seen them all play and had even played against most of them at one time or another, but he didn't know very much about them.

Zachary Fray was partnered with Edric Trumeau, and they were looping around each other quite elegantly. Fray was a beater, but Harry reckoned he'd be a good chaser or even a seeker, given his flying skills. Trumeau, of course, was brilliant.

Thomas Nielson, Gardenia Jones, and Aurelia smith were working with a group of three which made the looping maneuvers more complicated, but they were getting along fine. Aurelia Smith was catching the ball with one hand, with her _fingertips._ Oliver must have gotten damn good if she was just the alternate.

Liliana Porter had partnered with Draco Malfoy and- … Hang on, was it really necessary for her to be flying like _that?_ Harry wrinkled his nose. She kept tossing her hair over her shoulder and shooting suggestive looks at Malfoy every time she caught the ball. Her back was arched quite unnecessarily. And she was _giggling._

Harry glowered at her from the end line. Her behavior was totally inappropriate. And vulgar. And Malfoy wasn't even worth it. And they'd just met half an hour ago. And she was way out of pointy-nose's league. Really, did she have to _giggle_?

"Look at her, throwing herself at him like that. It's downright disturbing," He said.

"Sorry?" asked Wood.

Harry jumped, coloring. He'd forgotten Wood was there. "Nothing, just thinking out loud. Come on, it's our turn."

But as they were weaving through the air, throwing and catching, Harry found that his focus kept drifting back to Liliana and Malfoy. They were waiting by the goals now, and she was getting awfully close with her broom. Was he laughing? Did she just touch his arm?

"Harry! Up!" Wood shouted, bringing Harry's attention back to the drill as he looped upwards.

It's not like he cared what Liliana and Malfoy did. Just so long as they did it on their own time and not during practice. They were here to play, not _flirt._ He scowled again, then decided to dutifully ignore them for the rest of the day.

It's not like he cared.

The rest of practice seemed to drag on. Just a bunch of flying drills and they had to switch partners twice. Harry flew with Aurelia Smith and Trumeau, who continued to be brilliant. Despite the feeling of growing excitement (they were _good—_maybe good enough to win the Cup_) _Harry couldn't help but notice Liliana's blatant flirting throughout the day. And for whatever reason (he'd come up with more than a few) it bothered him.

By the time practice was over he was tired, hungry, and more than a bit sore from sitting on his broom so long. He couldn't wait to get home and change. He was going to Ron and Hermione's for dinner that night, and they'd want to hear all about his practice. Harry grinned, imagining the expression on Ron's face when he found out that Harry would be scrimmaging the Chudley Cannons next week.

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**AN: **I know I overuse italics. I can't help it. It's how people _speak._ :]

Thanks for all the reviews! Leave more. :B

And I'm not taking down the Author's note because then i'd get confused. D: I'm really that lame. Sorry if it bothers you, just don't read it. ;] That's why I labeled it.

Sorry for any mistakes. It's really late and the muscle relaxant i have to take for my neck makes me a little out of it. Does Quidditch always need to be capitalized? I'm too tired to check.


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